


put your hands where my eyes could see

by perissologist



Series: a little less conversation [8]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Grayson (Comics), Midnighter (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:30:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: Dick sighs, eyes flickering downwards. “Look, Bruce,” he begins—but at that moment, a flock of guests passes by, and everything goes to shit. “Ah, Dick,” says Slade, detaching himself from the group and waving his compatriots on. “Just who I wanted to see.”





	1. whylin with my freak like we up in the freak shows

“Dick, _no_.”

 

Dick frowns, looking vaguely offended at the vehemence in Tim’s voice. “What’s wrong with this one?”

 

Tim stares at Dick like he’s not entirely sure how his brother survived till twenty-two. “It’s orange.”

 

Dick grins. “Orange’s nice.”

 

“Oh my _god_.” Tim jumps up from Dick’s bed, stalks over to Dick’s closet, and rummages around inside, surfacing a second later with the black satin bowtie that Dick could’ve _sworn_ wasn’t there before. “ _This_ one,” he says, like an adult explaining something very simple and very important to a toddler. “And your midnight blue tux; it brings out your eyes.”

 

Dick beams, reaching out to ruffle Tim’s hair, ignoring Tim’s noise of disgust. “You’re the best, little bro.”

 

“Gross,” Tim scowls, ducking out of the way of Dick’s reach. He flops back onto Dick’s bed, eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s got you in such a good mood, anyways? You hate company events.”

 

“Hmm?” Dick busies himself looking through the dry-cleaning bags on the hangers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmy.”

 

“Please,” Tim scoffs. “You’re being suspiciously happy-go-lucky in the face of imminent contact with Bruce.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Is it because you’ve got a hot date to distract you for the night? It’s not Helena again, is it?”

 

Dick barks out a laugh. “No, it’s not Helena again. And the date is for afterwards; it’ll be just me at the gala.”

 

Tim sits up. “You’re going to the gala alone?”

 

“ _Ah-hah_.” Dick finds the suit he’s looking for and takes it out to set aside with the tie. “And yeah, as of now, I’m not planning on bringing a plus one.” He turns to drape the tux on the chair beside his bed and catches sight of the expression on Tim’s face. “What?”

 

Tim quickly schools his features into blankness again. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

 

“Timmy, _what?_ ”

 

Tim hesitates, then sighs. “it’s just that—whenever you show up at company events by yourself, all of the socialites practically mob you, and, well, we all know how _that_ usually turns out.”

 

“Hey,” Dick says defensively, “some of them are really nice—and as for the others, well, it wasn’t _my_ fault that Vicki Vale happened to spill an entire tray of red wine on her thousand-dollar white silk Valentino at the children’s charity ball.”

 

“You _know_ that dress easily cleared seven thousand dollars,” Tim accuses. “And literally everyone saw you pushing that poor serving kid straight into Vicki’s path.”

 

Dick grins, guileless. “I’m clumsy?”

 

Tim rolls his eyes so hard Dick is surprised he doesn’t sprain something. “Says the professional dancer,” he mutters, getting to his feet. “Look, bring a date, don’t bring a date, it’s whatever. Just try to control your ass and eyes and—I don’t know—cloud of male pheromones, okay?” He frowns. “There’s already enough going on with the LexCorp lawsuit and DS noncompete and”—he draws in a sharp breath, brow wrinkling—“I don’t know, Dick, I’m really worried about Cass’s custody trial—”

 

“Hey.” Dick clasps Tim’s shoulder, shaking him out of his own head before he can slide into his patented Tim spiral. “The company can handle a few petty competitors, Bruce can handle Lex Luthor, and you _know_ that Nigella and Arianne and the rest of Bruce’s lawyers aren’t going to settle for anything less than making Cass our legal sister by the end of the summer.” He waits until Tim has met his eyes before giving him the best big brother smile he has in his arsenal. “Everything’s going to be okay, you know that, right?”

 

Tim exhales, and Dick feels the tension drain from the shoulder under his hand. “Yeah, I know,” he grumbles, looking faintly embarrassed. “Sorry, I was just—freaking out again.” He hesitates, averting his eyes; then, before Dick can react, he darts in under Dick’s arms, squeezing his midriff in a quick hug. Just as quickly he’s out of range again and beelining for the door, tossing a jumbled “I gotta go meet up with Cass, byeee!” over his shoulder as he practically flees Dick’s apartment.

 

Dick can’t help but laugh as he hears the front door slam shut, overwhelmed with a fresh rush of affection for his neurotic little brother. Then he flops backwards onto his bed, staring up at his ceiling light as he drums his fingers pensively on his stomach. He thinks of Tim’s worried little frown, the scars on the back of Cass’s hands, the grim set of Bruce’s mouth the last time the news featured the paparazzi chasing him to his car—and before he knows it, he’s digging his phone out of the pocket of his joggers and dialing the third name in his _Recent Contacts._

 

“Grayson,” M says on the third ring, sounding surprised. “To what do I owe this enormous pleasure?”

 

“Hey,” Dick says, sighing and closing his eyes. “Do you happen to have plans for this Friday?”

 

~*~

 

“You know, Grayson, you clean up nice,” M murmurs, voice warm and low in Dick’s ear as he escorts him out of the car. They’re greeted by the blinding flashes of the paparazzi, the excited clamor of the crowd, and the beautiful facade of the Metropolitan Theater of Gotham rising before them, draped with banners featuring shots of the Classics Company and lit aglow from within. “And this coming from someone who’s seen you in a leotard.”

 

Dick rolls his eyes, but takes the compliment for what it is. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he returns, stealing a moment to appreciate the tight cut of M’s silhouette in his all-black tuxedo. “Just had that tux lying around, did you?”

 

M snorts; his eyes, piercing and liquid-brown, flash in the glittering lights. “For you? Sure, Grayson.” Then he tugs Dick into his side and begins to lead him forward, through the herd of guests and reporters thronging the carpet. “Now, keep your head down, unless you want to give every Patty Paparazzi here their meal ticket for the next two weeks.”

 

Dick ducks his chin, and together they slip through the crowd relatively unhindered; M, with his uncanny people-sense that Dick has never quite been able to understand, somehow picks out every recognizable face from the E!Network and steers them clear of all of them. They make it past the entrance of the theater and into the foyer without so much as being stopped to ask what they’re wearing, or if Dick feels brave for being so openly out at such a high-profile event; then it’s five minutes to be checked against the guest list by the security personnel—“Sorry, Mr. Grayson, it’s just a formality,” says Steve, who has known Dick since he was eleven—and they’re stepping through the metal detectors and into the March Ballroom, an enormous, lofty room with a dance floor and a stage and islands of white-blanketed tables, glowing golden under the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. 

 

“An insider’s look at a Wayne event at last,” M muses dryly, taking in the glitz and glamor and scores of elegantly outfitted celebrities and politicians surrounding them, an amused curl to his mouth. “I feel like I finally know the whole you, Grayson.”

 

“Shut up,” Dick mutters, warily scanning the ballroom for the dreaded slick-haired/steel-eyed/impeccably tailored combo. “I hate this stuff, and you know it.”

 

“Dick!” A smaller slick-haired, steel-eyed, impeccably tailored combo catches Dick’s attention, and he turns to see Tim approaching, Cass and Damian trailing behind him. “You made it.”

 

“‘Course I did,” Dick says, pasting on a bright, cheerful smile. He reaches out to ruffle Damian’s hair, ignoring the kid’s irritated scowl. “Hey, Dami, enjoying yourself so far?”

 

“ _Tt_ ,” Damian scoffs, practically emanating disdain in a dark aura around himself. Dick grins; he looks absolutely fucking _adorable_ in his tiny tuxedo and little red bowtie. “I despise these events, Grayson, as I know you and Father secretly do as well, even if you are both too cowardly to admit it. The number of insipid simpletons crammed into one room is astounding, not to mention completely intolerable.”

 

Dick just rolls his eyes and reaches over Damian’s head to pull Cass into a quick hug, ignoring Damian’s squawk of protest as he ducks out from under them. “What about you, Cassie? Having fun?”

 

Cass grins and nods. She’s decked out in a black and gold sequined sheath dress, red crystals adorning her neck and wrists and woven through her short, dark hair; it looks incredible on her, and Dick just knows that Alfred picked it out for her. “Everything’s so pretty,” she says, happily. She looks over Dick’s shoulder and brightens even more. “M.”

 

“Cassandra,” M rumbles, and Dick smiles: M has always had a soft spot for Cass. “You look great.”

 

Cass beams, and Dick chuckles, turning to Tim and Damian. “Tim, Dami, this is M, my aerials partner at work.”

 

“Oh, _you’re_ M,” Tim says, with a shit-eating grin that instantly sets off warning bells in Dick’s head. “Great to finally meet you, I’ve heard _so_ much.”

 

“ _Tim_ —” Dick begins, but he doesn’t get any farther than that before Damian steps up to glower at M, eyes narrowed.

 

“If you defile him, I _will_ run you through with my katana,” he threatens, and Dick yelps in protest even as Tim and Cass giggle and grab Damian by the arms, dragging him away with a “Have fun!” tossed over their shoulders.

 

Dick groans, dropping his burning face into his hands, as M turns to him, smirk in full effect. “They’ve heard _so_ much, have they?” he asks, voice a teasing knifepoint.

 

Dick raises his head to scowl at him. “All from Cass,” he proclaims, in a heroic and brazenly untrue attempt to preserve his dignity. “She’s the gabber of the family.”

 

M’s grin turns positively predatory. “Cassandra, the girl who was mute for the first fifteen years of her life?”

 

Dick coughs. “She’s made _rapid_ improvements.”

 

M just laughs, smug but not unkind. “Does your kid brother really have a katana?”

 

Dick grimaces. “He spent the first seven years of his life with his mother, and she had… _unconventional_ ideas about raising children.” He pauses, then adds, “We’re not in contact with her anymore.”

 

M, for his part, looks like he has infinite questions about _that_ —but he doesn’t get the chance to ask them, because at that moment the sound of a mic clearing rings across the floor, and the guests quieten to turn to the stage. Dick’s breath catches.

 

“Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between,” Bruce begins, smooth as silk, and an appreciative chuckle ripples through the room, the crowd already charmed. At his side, Diana stands in a backless red velvet dress, her trademark gold cuffs flashing at her wrists. “On behalf of Wayne Enterprises, I’d like to welcome you all to the annual Wayne Foundation Summer Gala, hosted in partnership with the city's own Gotham Classics Company. Please, help yourself to drinks and appetizers; dinner will be served at eight-thirty. Miss Prince and I thank you for coming, and look forward to telling you about all of the wonderful charities that the Foundation has worked closely with this year.”

 

Bruce hands the microphone over to Diana and steps off the stage, and Dick has to turn away, throat tight. Next to him, M looks concerned, and like he’s trying not to show it. “You alright there, Grayson?”

 

Dick sucks in a quick breath, willing himself to stop being so dramatic. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“Dick.”

 

Dick tenses instantly, eyes going wide, and _damnit_ , it’s been years since he moved out but that voice still has the same effect on him. He braces himself and turns. “Bruce.”

 

And Bruce looks—tired, Dick thinks, underneath the shoeshine and hair gel and expertly tailored Armani. Eyes like ice, cheekbones that could cut diamonds, hair jet-black despite the fact that Dick would have expected a little gray by now. Tired, and as bullheaded as ever. “It’s,” Bruce begins, then clears his throat, a rare sign of uncertainty. “It’s good to see you.”

 

Dick swallows. “Yeah,” he croaks out. “You too.”

 

For a long, tense moment, they simply stare at each other, years of fights and bitterness and aching, half-conciliations like a landmine between them. To Dick’s surprise, it’s Bruce who breaks the stalemate, ice-blue eyes flicking away from Dick to the companion at his side. “Ah, apologies,” he excuses himself, mouth drawn up into a tight smile. “I’m being rude. You must be Dick’s date.”

 

“My friend,” Dick corrects him, on instinct. “My, uh, my partner, actually, at the Company.” He presses his eyes closed, resisting the urge to smack himself. “Bruce, this is M, my aerials partner. M, this is Bruce Wayne, my—” He falters, feels himself burn. “My…guardian.”

 

M tilts his head. “Mr. Wayne.”

 

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. M,” Bruce returns. His eyes go back to Dick again, almost involuntarily. “Work is good?”

 

Dick glances to M. “Yeah,” he says. “Work is good.” He looks back to Bruce, then beyond, at the gala. “How’s the company?”

 

“Doing well,” Bruce answers. There’s a moment in which it almost seems like he’s going to smile. “In no small part thanks to Tim.”

 

Dick, for his part, does smile, small but bright. “Yeah, that kid’s a good one.” He pauses, searches Bruce’s face. “And—Cass’s case?”

 

Bruce breathes out, slowly, eyes flashing with determination. “We’ll win it.”

 

And this is the Bruce Dick misses: the Bruce who shelters the battered, disabled sixteen-year-old girl his ward brought home from dance practice one day, the Bruce who would fight god himself if it meant making sure that that girl’s father will never touch her again. The Bruce who took him in, twelve years ago. Dick swallows. “I know you will,” he says, because he does. For Cass, Dick knows— _for any of us,_ a voice says, tiny and brief in the back of his mind—he would give up the world.

 

Dick sighs, eyes flickering downwards. “Look, Bruce,” he begins—but at that moment, a flock of guests passes by, and everything goes to shit. 

 

“Ah, Dick,” says Slade, detaching himself from the group and waving his compatriots on. “Just who I wanted to see.”

 

“Slade,” says Dick, surprised. _Of course—the Company’s second biggest sponsor._ “I—forgot you would be here.”

 

Beside him, Bruce has gone stiff, expression shuttered. “Wilson.”

 

Slade looks to him, mouth tilted up in a nonplussed smile. “Wayne.”

 

Dick’s skin prickles, and he unconsciously steps forward, into the space between Bruce and Slade. “Was there something you needed, Slade?”

 

“Ah, yes.” Slade pulls out his phone, opens a document on the screen, and holds it out. “I just thought I’d let you know that the Events team has made an adjustment to your offer.” He lets Dick take the phone, hands sliding back into his pockets. “As incentive for your further consideration.”

 

Bruce’s gaze swings around to Dick. “What offer?”

 

Dick stares at the document on the phone; after a second, he swallows and hands it back to Slade, flashing him a wavering smile. “Please tell your Events team that I appreciate the generosity, but I’m still not ready to make a decision, if that’s alright.”

 

“Of course,” Slade says, accepting the phone. “You’re welcome to all the time you need.”

 

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice comes out like gravel. “What. Offer?”

 

Dick hesitates; then, quickly, like ripping off a bandaid, “Slade has offered me a position as an exclusive entertainer for DS Enterprises.” His mouth feels incredibly dry. “It’s—a very lucrative offer.”

 

Bruce’s jaw tightens. To an outsider, it’s barely anything, but to Dick, Bruce may as well have thrown a tantrum. “An _exclusive entertainer?_ ”

 

Dick feels himself turn the color of the rubies on Cass’s wrists. “Shit, okay, that was bad wording, what I meant was—”

 

“What he meant was,” Slade cuts in, smooth as water, “I offered him the chance at a better life—one in which he is in control of his own career.”

 

If looks could kill, Slade would be six feet under. “Like _you_ were in control of him four years ago?”

 

“Bruce—” Dick starts, mortified. 

 

But Slade only smiles, as unaffected as ever. “Of course not,” he demurs, tilting his head. “Every decision Dick made then was his own, as it will be now.”

 

Bruce’s lip curls. “Well, rest assured that this is not a decision that Dick will be making.”

 

Dick jerks. “ _Bruce_.”

 

“Is this really what you want?” Bruce demands; his voice has gone suddenly and shockingly cold. “To be at his beck and call like some kind of lap dog? To be the mascot of a man who took advantage of you?”

 

And Dick—Dick wants to laugh, because _this_ —this is the Bruce who shut him out. This is the Bruce he left. “It’s _my_ life,” he grinds out, shaking. “It’s _always_ been my life, no matter how much you seem to think it isn’t. I came here to”—he flounders; to support Tim? to see Cass and Damian? to make up?—“but I can’t—I won’t stay if this is just going to be another pissing contest over the choices that _I_ make.” He turns, abruptly, and nearly runs into M, who has been standing there, silent, the entire time. “Shit—M—I’m sorry about this, but I have to go. Please, feel free to stay, enjoy yourself—”

 

“I’m good, actually,” M cuts him off, eyes flicking between Bruce and Slade with impressive flatness. “Let’s get out of here?”

 

Dick swallows, nods, and lets M lead him to the exit, the cold, burning weight of Bruce’s stare on his neck as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so i decided to make this installment the first multi-chapter fic in the series because 
> 
> a) it'll probably be a bit longer than the others--like, not really long, but long enough that  
> b) i, being the Whiny Baby (TM) that i am, broke down and decided to post the first half first bc i need encouragement :(, due to the fact that  
> c) i make sACRIFICES for u guys?? do you know how much my self-esteem suffers when i have to screen choreography videos on youtube for dances to put in this series and end up sitting in my bed, a grown ass woman (ish), trying to restrain myself from being jealous of a 15 year old because he has unEARTHLY amounts of swag?? honestly i deserve reimbursement for emotional damages suffered from watching these videos
> 
> .........anyways, aside from my own existential crisis, this chapter featured
> 
> -the glitz!  
> -the glamor!  
> -the sibs!  
> -the Harem! ft. slade being a sneaky, sneaky son of a bitch
> 
> and the next chapter will feature
> 
> -the dancing!  
> -the gay!  
> -some slade/dick backstory  
> -a surprise makeout! a surprise nonmakeout! basically, lots of surprises!!
> 
> so stay tuned!! 
> 
> (((psst--
> 
> m: im not in love with dick grayson  
> m: but i would also do anything for dick grayson)))


	2. hit you with the shit make you feel it all in your toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See choreography: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGfGygA9-us

“No—Tim—I’m fine, I swear.” Dick slumps in his seat, shutting his eyes against the splitting ache forming in the back of his skull. He clutches his phone a little tighter, holding on to the sound of Tim’s rapid, frantic voice to keep himself tethered. “Yeah—no— _no_ , do _not_ talk to Bruce.” A pause, then a sigh. “Because I don’t want you getting caught up in this, okay? It won’t do anyone any good. And make _sure_ that Damian doesn’t say anything either. I don’t want him fighting with Bruce, too.” Another pause, longer this time. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. Okay.” A defensive laugh. “ _Okay_. Bye, Timmy. Love you too.”

 

M glances over as Dick hangs up. The car is dark and still, moonlight illuminating the interior in dappled patterns of glow and shadow, yet Dick feels like the world is still spinning dizzily around him. In the driver’s seat next to him, M’s expression is carefully blank, but his eyes are calculating as they scan Dick’s face. “So,” he says. “Your dad is a real piece of work, huh?”

 

Dick snorts, reaching up to scrub a hand through his carefully gelled hair. “Not my dad,” he mutters, half-hearted.

 

M laughs. “Right. Well, don’t worry. My old man was much worse.” He looks Dick over for a moment. “You alright?”

 

Dick sighs. “Yeah, it’s fine. Bruce and I have been fighting for years.”

 

M hums, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Not an answer.”

 

Dick feels his lips twitch. _M: Callous asshole, possible ex-convict, secret softie,_ he thinks. “I’m alright.”

 

M tilts his head, satisfied, and they sit together in the quiet of the night, looking out at the empty ZipMart parking lot M pulled into after he drove them away from the Metropolitan. Dick resists the urge to close his eyes and go to sleep in the passenger seat of M’s small, sleek car; he’s tired, his head hurts, and he hasn’t eaten anything since the bowl of cereal he scarfed down that morning before rushing off to the dry cleaner’s to pick up his tuxedo.

 

It’s M who breaks the silence, lips curled in a faint smirk as he glances over at Dick again. “So, do you want to tell me what went down between you and Wilson, or do I have to go digging through the old gossip columns in the _Gazettes_ from four years ago?”

 

Dick laughs at the image of M reading tabloids, then almost instantly sobers again when he remembers why. “No, I’ll—I’ll tell you. It’s not something I’m ashamed of.” That being said, it takes him a moment of just sitting there, drawing in slow, careful breaths, before he can start. “Slade and I…are kind of in an on-again, off-again, friends-with-benefits relationship.”

 

A single eyebrow rises. “Are you now.”

 

Dick frowns. “Yes. Don’t look so unsurprised.”

 

M rolls his eyes. “Right, sorry, I had _no_ idea why Slade hovers over you like a jungle cat guarding a fresh kill.”

 

Dick scowls at him. “Well, it started a few months before I turned nineteen, so that’s what happened four years ago.”

 

M sits up a little straighter, surprise flickering over his expression. “See, _that’s_ a little more scandalous.” He studies Dick with a look that’s almost analytical, and Dick shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “Eighteen, huh?”

 

“Yeah. We actually met at an event a lot like this one, that the Company was holding in honor of its patrons. We got seated across from each other at dinner, and at first we didn’t get along—like, _really_ didn’t get along. But, eventually we got to talking, kind of hit it off, and ended up”—Dick cringes—“hooking up in the storeroom, which was _very_ irresponsible of us.” At the look on M’s face, he hurries to add, “But I know what you’re thinking, and it wasn't like that. Everything was— _is_ —completely consensual.” He exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Bad judgement, maybe, but consensual.”

 

“Hmm,” M says.

 

“But Bruce didn’t see it like that.” Dick sighs, dropping his hands to stare into his palms. “We had already been fighting a lot at that point, and there was other stuff going on, but when he found out about Slade—he tried to make me leave the Company. That was—kind of the last straw for our relationship. I moved out, separated my life from his, and, well, here we are.”

 

“But you still talk,” M says.

 

Dick winces. “Sometimes, yeah, but nothing like we used to. There are—periods, when we’re almost okay. Like when Damian first came, right before Bruce broke his back and had to spend two months in physical therapy, so I moved back to the manor for the summer to help Alfred out—or at the beginning of last year, when I brought Cass home. But other than that…” He trails off.

 

M doesn’t say anything for a while, but Dick knows him: The man is crass and sarcastic and near-sociopathic, but he never stops thinking. So he sits and waits, and a second later M looks at him and says, “You ever scared that Wayne might’ve been right?”

 

Dick stares at him. “No?”

 

M raises an eyebrow. “Not about leaving the Company and whatever else, but about Wilson?”

 

Dick glares. “ _No_.”

 

M watches him for a moment, as if gauging the honesty of his answer. Then he shrugs, apparently satisfied. “Then you can’t worry about what he thinks.”

 

Dick deflates, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I know that, but you had me worried for a second there. I thought you were taking his side.”

 

M smirks, like the very idea amuses him. “Please, Grayson, I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just here for a laugh.”

 

Dick quiets, then, and takes him in: M, with his cool-guy undercut and inescapable dark eyes, sitting there in half a tuxedo, the jacket tossed somewhere in the back and bowtie pulled loose around his neck, in the parking lot of a ZipMart on a Friday night—because Dick asked him to. He leans the side of his temple against the headrest, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Well, that’s bull and we both know it. You’re on my side.”

 

M blinks at him, slowly, whisky eyes half-lit in the streetlamps; then he leans forward, intent and unafraid, the shadows shifting over his face. “Yeah, Grayson?”

 

Dick nods. “Absolutely.”

 

Dick jumps a little, surprised, when M reaches forward and slips a hand around the back of his neck; but when M starts to pull him in, he goes without resistance, eyes slipping shut as he lets M capture his mouth over the cup holders between them. 

 

The kiss is good—solid and warm, with a distracting amount of bite. Dick sighs and leans into it, seeking the heat of M’s touch, lashes fluttering at the muffled noise M gives in response. They draw closer together, M’s other hand grabbing at his waist as he latches onto M’s broad shoulders, breathy exhales and bitten-back groans already filling the car—and Dick can’t help but think how familiar this feels, like they’ve done it a million times before. _Just like dancing,_ he thinks.

 

_Dancing._ Oh, god, his date! Dick jerks back, mortified, as M tips forward with the sudden loss of contact, eyes snapping open in confusion. They stare at each other across the sudden rift for what must be the most awkward ten seconds of Dick’s entire life; then M clears his throat and draws back, a strange smile on his face. 

 

“Alright, I gotta know,” he says. “Was that not as good for you as it was for me?”

 

Dick’s eyes widen. “No!” he blurts out. “God, no, it was—” He flushes, feeling a little pathetic. “It was good. _Really_ good. I just”— _god, I’m such an asshole—_ “I just have a date tonight, actually, and I didn’t—” He stops, licks his lips. “It just…wouldn’t be fair to you.”

 

And M, to Dick’s surprise, doesn’t look offended, or hurt. In fact, he looks more amused than anything else. “Ah, I see what’s going on here. You think you’re leading me on.”

 

Dick winces. “I mean—aren’t I?”

 

M chuckles. “I admit, Grayson, I am into you—but yours is not the first pretty face I’ve lusted after, and you can rest assured that it will not be the last.” When Dick’s guilty expression lingers, he sighs and shakes his head, turning to face forward again and reaching for his keys. “Tell you what—if you’re really that torn up about it, let me drive you home and we’ll call it even, yeah?”

 

God, Dick deserves _death._ “M—”

 

M rolls his eyes. “Please, prettyboy, don’t give me those eyes. Trust me when I say I _don’t_ do unrequited.” He keys the engine and releases the car from park, all while Dick wrestles with his inner demons. “So,” he says, glancing over at Dick as he guides the car onto the highway. “Home, then?’

 

Dick hesitates. “Yeah.” He almost reaches out, then thinks better of it. “And M?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Dick swallows. “Thanks.”

 

M smiles faintly, eyes on the road. “Anytime, Grayson.”

 

~*~

 

When Grayson finally does decide to show up, twenty minutes past midnight and the time they were supposed to meet, he looks _damn_ good, that irritating bastard. Jason watches as he slips and slides his way down the grassy, dew-wet hill to where Jason is waiting for him by the gazebo, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, looking honestly illegal in a loose-fitting white t-shirt and tight-fitting dark jeans. “Sorry sorry sorry,” he gasps, skidding to a halt in front of where Jason’s leaning against the bike railing, looking just consternated enough for Jason to forgive him on the spot considering how fucking good those jeans look on him. “I had a thing before this, and I had to go back home to change, but I was, like, _wiped_ so I kind of ended up falling asleep in my closet? And when I woke up it was eleven-thirty already and I was super disoriented so it took me like fifteen minutes just to—”

 

“Okay, okay,” Jason cuts him off, smirking at Dick’s guilty flush. “Don’t freak, I just got here too.” He gestures up the path. “C’mon, it’s this way.”

 

They fall into step together, sharing in the easy silence of a freshly-washed summer night in Gotham. Dick looks around as they walk, eyeing the thickets of shadowy trees surrounding them. “I like the park at night,” he comments, idly; then, “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d be thinking that you’re taking me into the woods to kill me.”

 

Jason snorts out a startled laugh. “You’re just a Picasso with words, aren’t you?”

 

Dick blinks at him. “Sorry, was that weird?”

 

Jason glances at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, kind of. But I liked it.”

 

Dick grins at him, then looks up again. “Wow, the stars are amazing tonight.”

 

Jason looks over at him, at blue eyes opened wide and cheeks still flushed, and smiles. “Yeah, they are.”

 

When the path ends, Jason leads Dick off it and down a small slope into a cluttered ravine under a part of what used to be the Gotham E line, before the city shut it down and left the tracks to degrade quietly in their abandonment. Dick looks around, taking in the overgrown shrubbery and single, broken-down garden house, and faces Jason with a confused expression. “Is this…it?”

 

“Almost.” Jason wades through the tall grass to the pillars supporting the elevated tracks and gestures up a long-rusted ladder. “Up there. Careful, there are a few exposed nails near the bottom that you really can’t avoid unless someone lifts you or pulls you up, so I’ll give you a boost.”

 

Dick eyes the ladder warily, rising up the side of a pillar and up to the surface of the tracks. “Uh. Sure. But you don’t need to boost me, I can get up by myself.”

 

Jason lifts an eyebrow. “What, can you fly?”

 

Dick looks mildly offended. “I’m an acrobat. I can climb a ladder.”

 

“Does being an acrobat make you immune to tetanus?” Jason walks over to the base of the ladder. “Come on, I’m gonna need you to pull me up, too. I swear this isn’t a slight against your fancy gymnastics abilities or whatever.”

 

Dick shrugs and complies without further protest, walking over and allowing Jason to set his hands around his waist and lift him up over the first few rungs. He’s warm and solid against Jason’s fingers, and smells faintly like coconut, like he’s the kind of guy who’s too assured in his masculinity to care that his shampoo is marketed for women. Then he’s securely on the ladder and offering a hand to return the favor, and Jason pushes aside all of his distracted thoughts and reaches out to let Dick pull him up.

 

They reach the top to find that a crowd has already gathered, thirty or so people all in their twenties lounging around on the open tracks and sharing beers among themselves. Dick straightens, expression brightening. “Oh, this is cool.” He pauses, frowning. “Kind of unsafe, though.”

 

Jason snorts and grabs Dick’s wrist. “C’mon, acrobat.” He leads Dick over to the loiterers, dropping Dick’s hand just before he greets them with a jerk of his chin. “Hey, guys,” he says, getting a smattering of _Hey, Jason_ s and _Sup dude_ s in response. “This is Dick; he does mostly classical stuff, but he’s been thinking about getting into hip hop, so I offered to show him around.”

 

A girl in the back lowers her beer, flicking clear blue eyes between Dick and Jason. “You sure he isn’t just the latest guy you’re banging?” she drawls, and a chuckle runs through the crowd, raising a chorus of _Yeah, Jason_ s and _Get it, boy_ s in its wake.

 

Jason rolls his eyes and carefully avoids looking at Dick. “Yeah, Dearden, I’m sure.”

 

The girl shrugs, raising her beer again. “Shame,” she says, like she’s holding back a laugh. “He’s pretty.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see Dick flushing a little and looking at him; and because he thinks he might be lying if he says he doesn’t want it, Jason does the next best thing and changes the subject. “Alright, alright, keep it in your pants. Is the crew here yet?”

 

“Yeah, they’re just setting up the music,” the girl—Dearden—says, nodding down the tracks, to where a smaller group of about six or seven are busy hooking up a daisy chain of portable speakers to one of the members’ phones. “They should be starting any minute now.”

 

Right on cue, a low, bumping beat begins thumping from the speakers, and the crowd whoops as the crew scatters into formation, warming up as a deep, smooth voice murmurs _“Ah, yeah, Flipmode,”_ over the intro. “Ah, here we go,” Jason says, as a somewhat shorter figure bounces out to the front, shifting from foot to foot to _“Flipmode, Busta Bus.”_ He pulls Dick to his side, already grinning. “Pay attention; you’re gonna wanna see this.”

 

Dick squints. “Is that a _kid?_ ”

 

But Dick doesn’t get an answer before Busta Rhymes launches into his first verse, and the dancers launch into the routine, all traces of looseness suddenly gone as they throw themselves bodily into the song. They begin with fists above their heads and rocking downwards as Busta chants _“Hit you with no delayin’ so what you sayin’ yo,”_ the movement rolling down their chests and into half-kicks as they make grabbing motions at their thighs. With a cleanly placed breath, Busta slides into _“Silly with my nine milli so what the deally yo,”_ and the dancers transition just as smoothly, palms extending out to mime pushing their bodies back before sinking, knees bent, to fold their arms in time to the beat against their chests. _“When I be on the mic yes I do my duty yo,”_ and they suddenly shift to the right into a slow, steep lean, then spin abruptly back around to the other side to pull one knee up tight to their stomachs. They kick out on _“Wild up in the club like we wild up in the studio,”_ using the weight of their legs to turn themselves face-forward again into a tightly controlled body roll that starts in the shoulders and ends all the way down at their knees. Every move is executed with a mesmerizing intensity, each movement practically ground out from forms that never slip, tight and sinuous all at once; they dance in perfect time to the even, deliberate rhythm of the song, with its rambling lyrics cut into clean, neatly-packaged lines, like the music is ingrained in their bones. 

 

Jason can’t help but glance over at Dick, and finds him watching with stars in his eyes. “Jason,” he says, with a delighted laugh. “Oh my god, they’re _magical._ ”

 

Jason grins, turning back to the performance. “Yeah, pretty much.”

 

Dick leans in a little closer, and Jason feels the warmth emanating off him like a radiator, catches another breath of that sweet, clean scent. “Okay, but seriously, that one kid in the front can’t be older than, like, fifteen.”

 

“Yeah, that’s Billy,” Jason chuckles, fond. “He’s a goof, but he’s good.”

 

“He’s _amazing_ ,” Dick says. “Is he part of the Blacktops?”

 

Jason glances at him, surprised that he remembered their name. “Nah; he’s from a different part of town, mainly does his own thing. I’ve tried to introduce him to the other kids, but he’s not really interested. Kind of on a different maturity level.”

 

“Ah,” Dick says. He’s watching Billy with an intent expression, and when Jason follows his gaze, he can see why: The kid is _killing_ the choreography, brow furrowed and teeth half-bared, every move flicked off his wiry limbs with laser-focus concentration. He jerks his hips forward, shoulders back, in time to _“Whylin’ with my freak like we up in the freak shows,”_ then goes taught, torso straight and arms stretched out like a scarecrow’s, hands hanging loose as he kicks up a leg and circles his foot around on _“Hit you with the shit make you feel it all in your toes—”_ The crowd loves it, breaking out into a chorus of cheers and shouts that quickly transform into whoops of Billy’s name as Billy drops down to his knees, then climbs steadily back up, limbs bending and swaying to the beat. The verse ends with _“If you don’t know you fucking with lyrical player pros”_ and segues into the hook, the even, repetitive rhythm giving way to a dancier, R &B tune that has the crew strutting forward in cheeky, exaggerated steps, arms pulled in tight against their sides, exuding a taunting, self-delighted attitude that boosts the crowd with vocal enthusiasm. _“Do you really wanna party with me?”_ Busta sings, _“Let me see just what you got for me,”_ and the dancers spin around to reach back in a sideways pop-and-lock, _“Put all your hands where my eyes can see,”_ and they slide-step backwards with elbows pulled in high, wrists twirling, _“Straight buckwildin’ in the place to be, if you really wanna party with me…”_ As the hook progresses, the routine unravels in favor of a controlled freestyle, the other dancers twirling and swooping while Billy pushes forward, popping up onto his toes and circling his shoulders with robotic precision. Then he plants his feet apart to lean back at the waist, using his fingers to mime pushing his chest further and further back, before he rests one hand placidly over his pelvis and the other over the bill of his baseball cap as he bobs in time to _“Let me see just what you got for me…”_ It’s a move that _exudes_ skill and confidence, infused with aggressive playfulness, born of years of practice and commitment.

 

The music rambles on, the dancers spread and jump to the beat, and Dick glows in the moonlight next to Jason, lit up by the stars. 

 

~*~

 

“Hey, Billy,” Jason calls out, after the routine is over and the performers and audience are intermingling, talking and laughing and getting a little tipsy. He jogs over the tracks, Dick trailing behind him, as Billy turns at the sound of his name. 

 

“Jason,” Billy greets him. “Hey, dude, I’m glad you came.”

 

“Yeah, man, you killed it,” Jason laughs. “Can I introduce you to someone?”

 

Billy’s eyes flick over Jason’s shoulder. “Uh, is it noted Gotham celebrity and decorated professional aerialist Richard Grayson?”

 

Dick flushes, but Jason just chuckles, kind of used to it by now. “Billy, this is Dick; Dick, this is Billy Batson.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Dick says, smiling. “You were great up there.”

 

“Thanks, man,” Billy says, grinning. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

 

“Look, I gotta go close up the shop, but I’ll talk to you later, Billy,” Jason says. “Say hi to Mary for me?”

 

“You got it,” Billy says. 

 

Jason waves him off, then turns back to Dick, jerking his head. “Can we get out of here?”

 

Dick smiles, soft and easy. “Sure.”

 

They make their way down from the tracks and back onto the park path, the music and chatter fading behind them into the chirruping crickets and rustling of trees that fills the night. Jason steals a glance at Dick. He’s got his head tipped back, a blissed-out expression on his face, the wind running its fingers through his dark, feathery hair, and Jason’s known this guy for all of two weeks but god, it almost _hurts_ , how beautiful Dick is. He swallows and looks away; just as he does, Dick looks over at at him, eyes bright.

 

“If _that’s_ the kind of music and choreography you’re thinking we might be able to put into the show,” he says, “then I’m in. Like, ready to call my boss tonight, let’s draw up a contract pronto, _in_.”

 

Jason smirks. “Yeah? You think stuff like that could mix with what you do?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Dick says. “The rhythm, the intensity, the fluidity of movement? Yeah, I’ve got ideas.”

 

Jason hums, sticking his hands in his pockets. “And you’re still sure you want me? You haven’t even seen me dance.”

 

Dick stills for a moment, then smiles. “No, I guess I haven’t. But I can tell you’re good.”

 

Jason arches a brow. “You can _tell_ , can you?”

 

“Yep,” Dick says, popping the p. His eyes skip down Jason’s body, and Jason wants to laugh, because how can the same person _blush_ at being recognized, but then give him _that_ look? “I’ve got a good eye.” His gaze rises to meet Jason’s again, and for a moment they just stare at each other—then Dick breaks the moment with a casual shrug. “Besides, I just need your expertise, not for you to actually perform in the show. And you’ve already shown me that you have _great_ taste.”

 

Jason sucks in a breath, holding it for a second; then he pushes it forcefully back out, shaking his head with a laugh. “Alright, Grayson,” he says, like he can’t believe his own words. “I’ll do it.”

 

Dick stops short, a wide, dazzling smile breaking out across his face. “Yeah? You mean it?”

 

“I—yeah,” Jason says, a little breathless. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

 

And Jesus, the way Dick _looks_ at him— “Thank you, Jason,” he says, more earnest than anyone else Jason has ever met in this hellhole of a city. “You won’t regret this.”

 

Jason ducks his head, feeling a flush rise up his neck. “Just let me check my schedule first, yeah? I might not be able to meet up for another week or two, we’re doing renovations at the garage.”

 

“Sure, of course,” Dick agrees. 

 

Jason pulls out his phone and turns away, taking the opportunity to fill his lungs with fresh air. There’s something about Dick Grayson’s presence that’s near-intoxicating; it fills Jason with a sort of heady lightness that makes it almost impossibly difficult to think straight, past any moment that isn’t contained in the startling blue of Dick’s eyes and the fan of his feathery lashes, dark against his cheekbones. Jason gives his head a sharp shake, reminding himself that _this is business, think business_ ; then he turns his phone on, with the intent of checking the Google Calendar Duke shared between them when they first started renovations.

 

What he gets instead is a handful of unread texts, a couple from Kori and Kyle and the rest from Roy. Jason freezes, a sudden chill settling into his veins. _Roy._ He squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck._ He almost forgot about Roy. _Fuck, is he gonna flip?_ He growls, annoyed with himself. _Am I even gonna tell him?_

 

He muffles a groan. Yeah, of course he’s going to tell him. But there’s still a way he can save this, do some damage control so that his promise to Roy doesn’t end up a complete lie. He grits his teeth and shoves his phone back into his pocket. _Fuck._ And he was really starting to like this one, too.

 

Jason turns back around. “Dick, look, before we go forward with this—there’s something I have to. Um. Clear up.”

 

Dick blinks at him. “Oh. Sure, go ahead.”

 

Jason steels himself. “Look, I like you.”

 

Dick brightens. “Oh!”

 

Jason digs his nails into his palm. “But, uh. Not—like that.”

 

It takes a second for his meaning to sink in, but Jason knows the exact moment when it does, because he has never seen the light go out of someone’s eyes that quickly. “Oh.”

 

“It’s nothing personal,” Jason gets out, because that’s what people say, isn’t it? “And I’d really like to work with you, but—last week, when we met up at the diner, you said something about a date and—I don’t even know if you were being serious, but I just—I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.” He swallows, searching Dick’s expression. “Is that okay?”

 

And the worst part is, for just a second, Jason can _see_ the cracks in Dick’s veneer—the minute fall of his shoulders, the disappointment and _embarrassment_ that flashes through his eyes. But then, like the worst magic trick in the world, it all vanishes, and there’s only Richard Grayson, Gotham celebrity with the perfect smile. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” Dick says, with a little laugh that sounds entirely wrong. “I mean, I kind of feel like an idiot, but that’s not your problem. I’m just glad that—that you’re willing to be a part of this project with us.”

 

“I am,” Jason says. He’s still looking for the Dick that was beside him all night. “I—that’s what matters, right?”

 

“Exactly,” Dick says, and Jason doesn’t find him. “That’s what matters.”

 

~*~

 

Dick gets home at around three in the morning and, without even bothering to turn the lights on, immediately flops face-forward onto his bed, muffling a long, loud groan into his pillow. _Lord, take me now,_ he thinks forlornly as he slowly suffocates himself. _Does it get any worse than this?_

 

He makes a frustrated noise and rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. _Fuck._ He feels like such an _idiot._ Here he was, making eyes at Jason all night like an overly amorous cow, and Jason… Dick throws an arm over his eyes, stomach sinking. Jason, despite being open to guys if the things that Dearden girl said was anything to go by, wasn’t into him _like that._ God, he told M that he was going on a _date!_

 

Dick feels a weight settle over him, heavy as stone. And at the end of the night, here he is again, alone in his apartment. Always alone, these days.

 

Dick swallows, letting his arm fall to his side. He feels so _pathetic._ And whenever he feels like this, there’s always one reliably satisfying, truly terrible decision that he ends up falling back on.

 

He holds out for approximately twenty seconds; then he’s sighing in defeat and reaching for his phone, thumbing through his contacts in the dark of his room.

 

When Slade picks up, the first thing that Dick blurts out is “I’m not calling about the offer”—then he instantly cringes, because, god, is there anything less sexy in the entire world? 

 

But Slade only chuckles, smooth and amused. “Alright, then,” he says, sounding completely unbothered that Dick has woken him up at three in the morning. “What are you calling about?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all of the lovely people who have been commenting on these last few installments and on this series in general. you keep me going and make all of the nuclear hits delivered to my self-esteem watching dance videos & long hours spent slaving over choreography wording totally worth it. i look forward to your encouragements and suggestions so much; you make this fun for me and i'm so glad that i've made something that you can enjoy in turn. 
> 
> that being said............................................sorry about this one lol ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> rest assured that everyone will get their heads out of their asses...eventually. in the meantime, in honor of dickiebird, tag that one friend who always texts their fuckboy ex


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